


The Empty Heart

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drinking to Cope, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach, References to Depression, References to Grief/Mourning, Sherlock's scars, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Sherlock had returned a few months, a few days earlier?  What if it had been nothing but a few hours?  What if he and John had been alone?  Things could have been so different...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Heart

John looks down at his watch.Only two more hours?!The clock on the wall agrees.He sighs.It seems like only a moment ago he was just pushing through the doors of the Church Rd. surgery, morning coffee in hand, and now—now dinner looms. 

Dinner, and all that implies…

* * *

_“I think it’s really for the best, John.  Don’t you?”_

_John says nothing.  He pulls at the silver-blue threads already fraying from the arm of the velveteen armchair in Ella’s new office.  He tries not to dwell on what the colour reminds him of._

_“She’s been good to me.”_

_“Yes, so you’ve said.  And you love her?”_

_“Yeah—I suppose.”_

_“You suppose?”_

_John clenches his fist, takes a deep breath, releases it again before looking up to meet Ella’s probing gaze.  “I do.  I love her enough.”_

_Ella nods.  “And you like her?”_

_John huffs out a laugh.  “What?”_

_“Do you like her?”_

_John shrugs, shakes his head, stares back down at his knees.  “She’s been there for me.  She—she pulled me out of a rut I’m not sure I could have gotten out of on my own.  She’s helped me accept—some things…”_

_“And you’re out now?”_

_John clenches his jaw tight agains the surge of unexpected rage.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_Ella’s expression remains neutral.  “I’m asking you if you’re out of that rut?”_

_Something tight and hot lets go in John’s chest.  “Oh.  I’m better.  I’m better than I was.”_

_Ella nods again, scribbles something onto the clipboard on her lap.  “And the drinking?”_

_A surge of adrenaline races through John’s bloodstream making his skin prickle, and his breath shallow out._

_Ella scribbles some more.  “That question makes you anxious.  Do you know why?”_

_John sniffs back the rage that is racing in at the edges again.  “I don’t want to talk about that.”_

_“Alright.  But, you are going to ask her—to marry you?”_

_John shrugs._

_“That’s good.  That’s good, John.  You’re moving on .  You need to.”_

_“Yeah…  Yeah, I guess.  I do.  Yeah.”_

* * *

Sliding open the desk drawer in the exam room, John removes the burgundy, velvet box he stowed there when he got in that morning.  He runs a finger once over the lid, before tapping his finger nail twice upon it, dropping it back inside, and slamming the drawer shut again as the door to the exam room swings open.

Catherine pokes her head in.  She’s perkier than Mary—pleasant, affable, but also a tad dim.  He misses Mary—Mary, who took the day off, unexpectedly.  She knows, John supposes.  She probably wants to spend half the afternoon getting ready, or some such nonsense. 

“What is it, Cathy?”  John knows he should moderate his tone, but he’s tired.

“You know that cancellation you had this morning, well we’ve had a walk in, rather insistent gentleman.  Says he needs a full physical, asap.  I said we could fit him in.  Are you free?  He’s rather insisting it be you.”

“Why me?”

She just shrugs.

“Well is he one of my usuals, or…?”

She shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  I’m sorry.”

John huffs in frustration and pivots his chair away from her, while waving a hand in dismissal.  “Fine.  Send him in.”

The man’s file comes through from the front desk, and John glances over it briefly:

  * William S. Yarrell
  * 38 years old
  * No prior history of any major medical concerns. 



Nothing of any interest then.  It should be a brief in-and-out affair.

The door opens behind him, and he hears Catherine’s sing-song voice bubbling over with her usual over-enthusiasm.  “Lovely day, isn’t it!  Perfect weather this close to the holidays.  Mr. Yarrell, Dr. Watson.  You can just sit there.”

John waves a hand behind his back.  “Yeah, sit.  I’ll be right with you.”

Come to think of it, Mr. Yarrell has a shocking lack of medical history for someone his age.

The door clicks shut, and John swings around.  “So Mr. Yarrell, I see that…” 

Everything stops. 

John freezes, blinks once, then twice, as all the oxygen leaves the room in a rush. His ears ring, head buzzing.  He can’t breathe—can’t breathe—can’t breathe!  This hasn’t happened in almost 6 months.  He closes his eyes.  Takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.  And then takes another.  He opens his eyes again.

“Hello, John.”

He sucks in a breath, too large, too quick, his vision blurs around the edges, and stars pop in front of the face he would know anywhere, the face that has been haunting his dreams for over two years (and several months before that if he is perfectly honest with himself).  He squeezes his eyes shut again, and turns his back on the patient.

“Sorry.  I’m, umm…  I’m suddenly feeling a little unwell.  I just need a moment.” ( _In: 1, 2, 3, - Hold - Out: 1, 2, 3 - Repeat - Feet flat on the floor - How does the desk feel under your fingers? - Recite the street names in your neighbourhood_ ).  John grips the edge of the desk to stop his hands from trembling, reminds himself that he isn’t dying. 

He’s internally made it all the way through the list to Cumberland Rd. when a touch on his shoulder causes him to jump, to loose his train of thought and rhythm of his breathing all over again.  His eyes snap open.  The hand is large, it rests warmly over his good shoulder, encompasses the whole of it.  “Breathe, John,” says the impossible ( _the infuriating, the breathtaking, the fucking beautiful_ ) voice.

All John wants to do is run.

“I’ve done this rather badly, haven’t I…” 

The hand on his shoulder is moving him now, swivelling him in the chair, away from the computer monitor, away from the safe, grey, solidity of the walls.  John feels like he is floating, just an inch or so above the chair.  Nothing feels real.  He presses his eyes closed again.

“John…”  Two hands cradle his face.  They’re warm.  They’re trembling slightly (or is he the one trembling).  They smell of cigarette smoke, and sugar biscuits, and pomade.  “John, it is me.  I’m realising I’ve done this all wrong, but it _is_ me.”

“No.  You’re dead.”  John finally manages.

“Yes, well—about that…”

John’s eyes snap open then.  It’s such a truly Sherlock thing to say.  And the face hovering only inches from his, is a very Sherlock face.  If this is a hallucination, if he’s finally, completely slipped over the edge, then his brain is doing a fantastic job of this.  There are freckles that weren’t there before.  There are more wrinkles about the eyes.  A single grey hair threading through the wayward curl that has escaped to bob against Sherlock’s (no—possibly, probably not Sherlock) forehead.  And the smell…  Oh, the scent of him hurls John headfirst down a tunnel of memories so vivid he’s drowning…

“Not dead—actually.”

John says nothing.  He seems incapable.  This is so real.  He wants it so very much to be real, but it’s not.  It can’t be.  It’s impossible.  Lifting his hands, he very methodically removes the man’s hands from his face.  He turns away, back to the computer.  He messages Catherine.  He tells her to return to the exam room.

After a few seconds she pops her head in through the door.  The patient jerks back from him, at her sudden appearance, and she stares at him oddly for a moment.

“Cathy, describe this patient for me, please.”

Catherine’s well-groomed brows furrow for a moment, but she does as asked.  “Thirty-eight year old male, 6 feet tall, about 12.1 stone.”

“More,” John manages.

“More?  What more?”

“He means, describe what I look like,” the patient who looks like Sherlock, sounds like Sherlock, but can’t possibly be Sherlock offers.  “Be specific.  Pretend you’re—giving a police report.” ( _again so Sherlock_ )

“Okay…  Umm—fit.”  She smiles at the patient when she says this.  John momentarily sees red, and makes a mental note to speak to her about professionalism.  “Dark, curly hair, almost black, but not quite.  Full lips.  Pronounced cupid’s bow.  Pale eyes, sort of a—grey/green/blue?  Long face.  High-cheekbones.  Broad…”

“Enough.  Get out.”  John’s voice sounds hoarse, strangled, even to his own ears. 

“What?  Just like that?”

“Yes.  Just like that.”

“Alright…”  She sounds confused, and more than a little irked.  She’ll tell Mary about this, that’s a certainty.

_Oh fuck—Mary._

John spins back around.  He looks at the man.  It’s not.  It’s not Sherlock.  It looks like Sherlock.  It sounds like Sherlock.  But this man is wearing an expression that Sherlock would never wear.  He’s looks caught out, guilty, almost—remorseful.  He looks ten years old.  Sherlock Holmes had never apologised for anything in his life.  Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t.

“Get out.”

The man swallows tightly.

“I won’t repeat myself.  I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re playing at, but it’s not funny, and you need to get out of my surgery before I call security.  Am I clear?”

“John, I’m sorry.  I…  Please, just hear me out.”

“SHUT UP!”  It comes out rather louder than John had intended.  Cathy will be back in, in a moment, if he’s not careful. 

The man who looks like Sherlock snaps his mouth closed, slightly stricken.  His eyes look full.  His cheeks flushed.

“And stay shut up!”  John raises a finger to punctuate his point.  The anger is overwhelming the panic response now.  Good.  He doesn’t want to run anymore.  He wants to stay.  He wants to punch something ( _someone_ ) hard.  He aches—in his head, in his chest, and somewhere deeper still, deep at the centre of him.  He aches for this to be real.  He aches to—to…

“John…”  It’s barely a whisper.  “I—I had to.”  The moisture that has been swimming in the man’s eyes spills over. 

John watches three tears run down the mans cheek.  He feels nothing.  There’s only the pain—the physical ache.  No emotion.  He’s numb.  A weird calm settles over him.  He feels the gears clicking into place. 

  * Exam Room 5. 
  * William Yarrow. 
  * Physical Exam. 
  * No medical history. 
  * Overdue then…



John takes a deep breath, points at the exam table.  “Sit.  Sit there, and take off your shirt.”

The man doesn’t move.

“You’re here for a physical exam, yeah?  Well, I can’t do that with you sitting there in a suit, so jacket and shirt off, and up on the exam table.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Alright.  Then you can leave.  You’re free to go—any time.”

“John—I…”

“Go then.  Your choice.”

“I…  Yes.  Alright.”

John realises suddenly, that the man is staying.  He’s beginning to disrobe.  John didn’t expect this.  He feels a momentary tinge of guilt.

He watches as the man shrugs out of his jacket and winces a little with the twist of one shoulder, before laying his jacket carefully over the arm of a nearby chair, and then begins to slowly unbutton his shirt.  His fingers are trembling, John notices.  It isn’t cold in the exam room, not today.  This is something else.

“Do you have some shoulder pain?”

The man’s head whips up.  “What?”

“I noticed you wincing a little as you took off your jacket, and you move like you’re favouring it.”

“It’s nothing.  Some—recent overexertion.”

“We’ll see.”

“I had a full medical exam, full lab work up, everything, when I got back to London.  Mycroft’s people saw to it.”

_Mycroft…_

John feels his blood run cold.  If this is some sort of joke, some sort of deception, and Mycroft is behind it…

“Mycroft?!  What’s Mycroft got to do with it?”

Sherlock ( _NO!!  Not Sherlock!_ ) is standing beside the examination table, shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, eyes red-rimmed.  “It was his plan.”

“Plan?”

“It’s a very long story…”

“I have all the time in the world,” John replies tightly.  That isn’t true.  He has another patient after this.  He has dinner in an hour and a half.  His stomach twists, sour at the thought.

“Perhaps later.”

“Later?”  John arches a brow.  “What makes you think there is going to be a later?”

“John, please…”

“No.  No!!  You are not Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t beg.  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t apologise, go all teary over—whatever this is.  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t feel things—not that way.”

“Sorry…”

“STOP APOLOGISING!!”  John’s chest heaves, his skin prickles and sings.  He hears the hurried squish of Cathy’s shoes on the linoleum outside.  He rushes over and locks the door to the exam room, just as she reaches it.   The door handle wiggles under his hand.

“Dr. Watson?   Is everything alright?” through the door.

“Fine, Cathy.  But—tell Verner I need him to take my last patient.  I’ll make it up to him.”

Her footsteps retreat down the hall again, and John slumps against the door, pressing his forehead to the cool wood.  “Tell me something.  Tell me something so that I know it’s you.  Something Mycroft, and his people, and his bloody CCTV, or…”  John swallows dryly.  “Or Moriarty, would never know.  Tell me, and I’ll believe you.”

He hears the creak of the chair behind him, as Sherlock ( _maybe??  please god…_ ) sits down.  “The case we took in Grimpen, a few months before I—before I left.  We had umm—a disagreement.  You remember?  The night we visited The Hollow.”

“There were dozens of witnesses in that restaurant?  That’s not proof, that’s—it’s…”  John knocks his head against the door.  Not hard enough to do damage, but just enough to jar his senses.  “That doesn’t prove anything, it’s just…”

“You went off in a huff.  I told you to chat up Henry’s therapist,” Sherlock rushes to interject.  “When you got back to the room you thought I was asleep.”

John spins around.  “Thought?”

And there is that look again, the look that is not Sherlock.  Sheepish.  Small.  Penitent.  “I wasn’t.”  He sucks in a soft breath, stares down at his hands, worries the fabric at the knees of his trousers between his finger tips.  “I heard you.”

“Heard me?”

Sherlock looks up.  “You know what I mean.”

John shakes his head.  “No.  Nope.  You tell me.  You tell me, Sherlock.”  He feels ill.  He feels like crying.  He feels like he is being immolated, body and soul.  “I want to hear you say it.  This could—this could still be some sick game.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit around the room, nervously, lighting on anything but John.  His cheeks have gone florid.  And John knows the truth even before Sherlock says it.  “I heard you.  When you came out of the shower and got into bed.  You thought that I was sleeping.  You—you were masturbating, and I heard you.”

John is fairly sure his own cheeks would be matching Sherlock’s if not for the fact that all the blood seems to have rushed from his head.  He’s dizzy, he feels cold, suddenly, like a slap in the face.  It’s shock, probably—emotional shock.  His brain has finally accepted this madness.  He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold linoleum.  He buries his face in his hands.  Because what is he supposed to say now.  What in god’s name is he supposed to do?!

“Two years…”  He doesn’t even recognise the voice as his own.  “Two years, I thought you were dead.  I—I saw you!  I saw you, Sherlock!  I saw you jump!  I saw you on the pavement, and the—the blood, and…”  He can’t breathe.

“Tell me what to do.”

John laughs, somehow, through short, shallow breaths.  This isn’t who they are.  This isn’t how it works.  Sherlock gives the orders.  Sherlock always has a plan—a fucking horrible, useless, god forsaken plan!  “Fuck!”

Knees press against his.  Hands wrap around his wrists, pry his hands away from his eyes.  And Sherlock is there.  He’s there.  Right there, sitting on the hard floor of the surgery, legs crossed like a child, first day at school, eyes searching, full—full of worry, full of regret, full of sorrow. 

“Breathe.”

John feels his heart slow.  It’s an order.  There’s comfort in that, and Sherlock’s hands are warm, and real, and alive ( _ALIVE!_ ) around his. 

“I had to.  There were snipers.  He was going to kill you.  You, and Lestrade—Mrs. Hudson.  I had to make a choice.  If I—if I’d known that you would have been—that my death would have…  John—I didn’t know.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

John feels all the fight and flight go out of him.  He’s nauseous.  He’s tired.  “You’re sorry?”

“Yes.”

John nods.  “It’s not that simple.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence.  Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hands.

He’s had dreams like this—so many times.  The first six months he always dreamt of Sherlock falling, falling, crumbling in a bloody heap on the pavement, a pile of ruined humanity, poetically beautiful, artful stripes of crimson over pale skin, silver, lifeless eyes staring at him until he woke with a start, stumbling in the dark to the loo, where he would vomit until he was drained and shaking. 

But after that, the dreams shifted.  He would dream of Sherlock coming home, just strolling into the flat, sitting in his chair, making fun of the titles of John’s blog, stowing severed digits in the crisper, or chastising him for his sentiment.  Sometimes he would walk straight into the lounge at Baker St., pull John into his arms and hold on so tight John could barely breath.  He woke from these dreams breathless, cheeks damp with tears.  In the end he didn’t know which dreams were worse. 

But this, now…  This feels like dying.  This feels like being reduced to ashes, and beckoned out of the grave again by a voice, by a touch, by…

“I’ll leave if you want.  Whatever you want, John.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

It’s a lie.  Deep down he knows it.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

John pulls his hands away, scratches the back of his neck, pulls down his cardigan in the back where it’s riding up.

“Was it true, what you said?” John finally manages.  “Some of your brother’s people gave you a once over when you got back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I suppose they deemed it—prudent.”

“Recent overexertion, you said before.  What did that mean—exactly?”

“Oh—it was nothing.  A little trouble in Eastern Europe.”

“Is that where you were?”

“The last three months.  Yes.”

“And before that?”

“Germany.  Pakistan.  Nepal for awhile.”

“Why?”

“Rat catching.”

John grins crookedly.

Sherlock smiles back for a moment, before his mouth settles into something blank and unreadable again.  “Moriarty’s network.  I was dismantling it.”

“By yourself?”  John makes no attempt to hide how displeased he is by the revelation.

“You were safer here, in London, under Mycroft’s weather eye.”

“ _You_ were safer here—under _mine_.”

Sherlock’s face does something John’s never seen before, soft around the eyes, almost—hopeful?

“And as for your brother’s doctors.  I’m not sure I trust them.  You did say it was his plan, this?  Yeah?”

Sherlock nods.

“Mind if I give you a quick look myself?  Convince myself you’re okay?”  John winks, and later can’t think why.  But Sherlock’s cheeks pink again, and his eyelids blink rapidly for a moment, before he nods wordlessly. 

“Okay.  That’s good.  Get up on the table for me.  Just a basic.  They did labs?  They came back okay?”

“Yes, John.”  There is the crinkle of tissue paper, as Sherlock slides onto the exam table. 

John gathers the things he needs.  “Take your shirt off, I want to take a look at that shoulder.”

“It’s fine.”

“So you said.  So if it’s fine, humour me.”

When John turns around Sherlock is struggling to disrobe, rib cage lurid purple, blue, yellow along the edges.  “Jesus…”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.  “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.  Fuck, Sherlock.  Just—here…”  Striding forward, John helps him, eases the crisp, white button-down over his shoulders, and stops dead, speechless at the map of wounds, scars, and burns traversing the pale skin of Sherlock’s back.  Some of them are horrifyingly recent and have sutures, some scabs, some are older, pink, not yet faded all the way to white, but are at least several months old.  It’s a mess, and it will leave him marked—permanent memories of whatever traumas produced them.  John knows all about scars, about the secrets they betray, about the horrible sense of vulnerability one experiences every time you are forced to reveal them.

He pulls the shirt back up, carefully, drapes it loosely over Sherlock’s shoulders.  “They did a decent job.  It will leave marks, but—they had skill, whoever patched you up.”  Sherlock is trembling.  It’s barely perceptible, but John notices, because it’s Sherlock, and he’s here, and he’s breathing, and John’s senses are flooded with him.  “Sherlock…”

“Mmm?”  He doesn’t look up.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock nods once, eyes still on the floor, but the trembling hasn’t stopped, and he’s not, not really.  But, he’s trying.

“I’m going to listen to your heart, okay?”  He holds up the end of the stethoscope where Sherlock can see it.  “Might be cold.”

Sherlock nods again, and John steps forward, into the V of Sherlock’s legs, presses the stethoscope to his chest, and cups a hand gently behind his neck.  There’s no need for the gesture, but he wants to, John realises.  He wants to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin under his fingers.  He wants to feel Sherlock settle and calm beneath the friendly touch. 

He moves the stethoscope, presses it as gently as possible against bruised ribs.  Sherlock hisses with pain.  “Sorry,” John whispers.  “Sorry.  Take a deep breath for me, if you can.”  He moves to the other side.  There’s less bruising there.  It’s easier.  He’s careful when he moves to the back.  He keeps the shirt on.  “Again.  Deep breath.”

John pulls away, and Sherlock shudders.

“You’re smoking again?”

Sherlock nods.

“It’s okay.  We’ll just.  We’ll start again.  You can work on quitting again, now you’re home.  Speaking of—have you been home?”

“What?”  Sherlock finally looks up.

“To Baker Street?  Mrs. Hudson’s kept it exactly the same, you know.  Looks like a museum—dust and all.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upward.  “No.  I haven’t been.”

John holds out a tongue depressor.  “Open up.  Say ahh.”  Sherlock does.  “Are you going there now?  I’m through here.  I could—I could come with.  We could order a take-away.  Like old times.”

John removes the tongue depressor, and Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the residual taste of wood before replying.  “Am I forgiven then?”

John thinks about it.  “No.  But it’s a start.”

“Am I allowed to get dressed now?”

John nods.  “Yeah.  Of course.  Yeah.”  He turns his back, and scoops his mobile off the desk.  “You want Thai, or Chinese?”

“Italian.  Get Angelo to deliver.”

“Don’t have his number anymore, do you…”

“44 20 7403 4012”

“Right.”

“The lasagna?”

“Yes.  With…”

“Extra cheese.  Yeah.  I remember.”

John texts the order, and a brief explanation.  He’s not sure Angelo won’t dismiss the text out of hand, as pure nonsense, but Sherlock can always try one better on their way home in the cab.

There’s also a text from The Landmark, confirming his reservation.  Shit…

Striding over to the door, he yanks it open, “Cathy!” 

Her head peaks around the corner.  “Verner took your last patient.  I was just getting ready to go home.  Everything okay?”

“Have you ever been to The Landmark?”

She giggles.  “A little rich for my blood.”

“Would you like to—tonight.  In an hour?”

She laughs again.  “What?  With you?”

“No!  No.  With Mary.”

“Mary?”

“I had a reservation, but—something’s come up and I won’t be able to make it.  You know how hard it is to get a reservation there.  Why waste it?  I can text Mary and tell her you’ll meet her there.”

“You don’t think she’ll be put out?  Romantic dinner co-opted by girl’s night out?”

“You two are always doing things.”

Catherine laughs again, high and almost forced.  Her eyes flit away from his.  “Well yes, but…”

John sighs.  “Listen.  Do you want to go, or not?”

“Sure.  If Mary’s fine with it.”

“She will be.  Hold on.”

He taps out a text: _‘Something’s come up.  Can’t make dinner.  Offered to give Cath my spot.  Game?’_

It only takes second for the reply: _‘Something’s come up?  You okay?’_

John sighs, and replies: _‘Fine.  Talk about it later.  So you’re fine about Cath and dinner?’_

_‘Suppose I’ll have to be.  Meet her there in an hour.’_

And that is that taken care of.

“She’s fine with it. She’ll meet you there.  The table’s under Watson.”

“Alright.  Thanks, Dr. Watson.”

John strides back into the exam room, pocketing his mobile.  Sherlock is standing beside the exam table, shirt buttoned, but still untucked, jacket slung over one arm.  “Who’s Mary?”

John snatches his own jacket off the counter.  “She’s umm…  She’s no one.  Well, not ‘no one’, but—It’s not important.  I’ll tell you about her later.”

“Alright.”

* * *

 

Sherlock’s thigh presses against John’s in the back of the cab.  It feels unreal still.  It probably will for awhile.

John’s mobile vibrates in his pocket.  He ignores it.

Sherlock is quiet.  He stares out the window at the damp, nighttime illumination of London racing past.  He squirms a little, now and again.  Pulling away from the back of the seat whenever they go over a bump.  His back bothers him.  As well it should.  John wonders if he’s taking anything.

“Did they give you anything for the pain?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on the cool November night.  “I’ve had some Paracetamol.  I could use another dose.”

“They should have given you something stronger.”

“I avoid opiates.  You know that.”

John did know that.  Does know that.  “Yeah, I just—I hate to see you uncomfortable.”

“It’s only pain, John.  If we could—stop talking about it, that would be better.”

“Yeah.  Okay.”

When they pull up to the kerb in front of 221b, Angelo is just walking up, bags of food in hand.  Sherlock ducks out of the cab, and John moves to pay.  He can here Angelo’s boisterous greeting behind him.  Hear him slapping Sherlock affably on the back, in greeting.  John winces in sympathy.  But, Sherlock is smiling down at the pavement when he turns around, Angelo still going on about how good it is too see him alive and well.  Sherlock is visibly pleased even if he’s rather bowled over by the sheer force of Angelo’s regard.

There is much chatting, which Sherlock only seems half engaged in.  He’s happy to see Angelo, that is clear, but he seems tired and distracted, and there is still Mrs. Hudson’s undoubtedly overwhelmed reaction to negotiate. 

As Angelo retreats back down the street, John juggles the bags with their dinner from one hand to the other, and fishes out his keys.  “You’d best let me prepare her, don’t you think?”

Sherlock is staring at his hands.  “You still have a key?”

“‘Course I still have a key.”

“But you don’t live here.”

“No, I…”  John has no answer.  It suddenly seems the most unforgivable of betrayals that he up and left, that he believed the deception, that he left after only a month because he couldn’t bear the memories.  But then—the betrayal went both ways, didn’t it?

“Yes, I suppose you’d better prepare her,” Sherlock says, moving on as though the thing about the key never happened.  John is grateful.  He hands Sherlock the bags, and motions for him to go upstairs, as they enter.

“You go up.  I’ll let her know.”

“Alright.  Do you want plates, or should we just eat out of containers?”

“Containers is fi…”

The door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat flies open, and she stands there, eyes wide, mouth agape, her eyes jumping in an instant from John, standing with fist still raised to knock, and Sherlock just behind him, bags of supper in hand.  John hears her breath catch, followed by a trembling sigh.  He takes a step back, to let her pass.

“I’m very angry at you, young man,” all she says, as she walks toward Sherlock, reaches up and takes his face in her shaking hands.  “Very angry.”  Her voice breaks, and Sherlock smiles down at her, softly. 

“Yes, well in my defence…”

Releasing her embrace, she takes a step back, and raises a finger under his nose.  “You promised.  In ’99, you remember?  That summer, when we all thought you were dead for a month, and Salvator finally discovered the truth, fished you out of a crack den in Miami Beach.  You promised me then—never again!”

Sherlock looks duly chastised.  “I did, didn’t I…  I’m sorry.  There were—extenuating circumstances this time.  I didn’t have a choice.”

“It was to keep us safe,” John adds.  He’s not sure how he feels about that explanation quite yet, but he feels strangely compelled to defend Sherlock’s actions, none-the-less.

“And him!”  She adds with renewed vigour.  “Sherlock, how could you—what with you two practically married?  Do you have any idea what you did to John?”

John clears his throat.  “It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson.  I’m fine.”

“But you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t, but I am.  Listen, we’ve just had supper delivered, and it’s pasta, so we sort of want to eat it while it’s hot, can we—do this another time?”

Sherlock looks at John like’s he’s just sprouted wings, and Mrs. Hudson just shakes her head.  “Of course.  You two go get reacquainted.  I’ll be up to make you breakfast though, mind.  So make sure you’re both decent.”

John opens his mouth to explain that he won’t be staying the night, but she’s already bustling back inside her flat.  “And this isn’t finished.  I’m still going to have words with you.”

“If you must.”

She just shakes her head.  “You’re lucky I’ve missed you so much.  Now go feed each other up.  You can catch me up tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Sherlock eats like he’s been starving.  Maybe he has been.  John has no idea, he realises.  Even with the brief explanation Sherlock gave him back at the surgery, he doesn’t really know.  John is hungry too, but he can’t seem to bring himself to eat much.  There is still anger, twisting cold, and awful in his belly.

“Did you not eat at all when you were out there?”

Sherlock looks up, a string of cheese stretching from his mouth to the fork in his hand.  He pulls it into his mouth with his tongue, finishes chewing, swallows and then takes a sip of wine before replying.  “Some places I did.  I was in northern Italy for a couple of weeks, and Paris for three days last year.”

“Recently,” John clarifies.

“Not recently.  I ran into some trouble in Serbia.  Feeding me was not their top priority.”

“What was?”

Sherlock’s eyes drift away to the fire John lit in the grate when they came in.  “Extracting information.”

John doesn’t pry.  “Well, you best eat up then.  You can have mine, if you like.  I’m not that hungry.”

“You are though?”

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”  John snaps, suddenly, without really knowing why.

“You should eat, John.”

“You have it.  I mean it.  I’m offering.  Just—you look like you need it more than I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes return to his, drag down the length of his body, and back up again.  They soften.  “I’m not so sure about that.”

John feels something light up inside him, something he hasn’t felt in over two years.  He looks away.  “Fine.  I’ll eat a little.  But don’t think this means I’m not angry at you any more.”

Sherlock wisely says nothing.

In the end John ends up eating the whole of his portion, and some garlic bread besides.  He’s well into his third glass of wine, when his mobile buzzes in his pocket again.  He wants to ignore it, but it’s getting a little ridiculous.

    M: _Where are you?_

    J: I’m fine.Might not be home tonight, though.

    M: _Harry?_

    J: Don’t wait up.

    M: _Didn’t have any intention.I’m at Cath’s.Might stay if you’re not coming home._

    J: Fine.

He shuts the mobile off and pockets it.

Sherlock is watching him.  “That was Mary?”

“Yeah.”

“Girlfriend.”  It’s not a question.

“Sort of—yeah.”

“Sort of?”

“We live together.”

“You live together?”

“Yeah.”

“You said she was no one.”

“What?”

“Before, at the surgery.  I asked who Mary was, and you said she was no one—didn’t matter.”

“Yeah, well…”  And John doesn’t know what to say. 

“She wants you to go home?”

“No.  She’s staying with Cath.”

“The woman from the surgery.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re alright with that?”

“Sure.  Why wouldn’t I be?  I’m staying here with you, and Mary doesn’t mind.  It’s the same thing.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment, as though looking for something.  “Mmm…  Maybe.”  He looks away again, leaning forward in his chair to reach for the wine bottle.  “Hand me that.  I want more.”  Sherlock refills his glass, and hands the empty bottle back to John.  “You told her you were here?”

“What?”

“You said she didn’t mind you staying with me.  You told her about me?”

“She knows about you, yeah.”

“She knows me as a dead man, I imagine.”

John sighs with exasperation.  “Is there a point to this?!”

“Not really, I suppose.”  Sherlock takes another sip of wine and leans back in his chair.  “So you told her you were here?”

“No.  I—evaded the question.”

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?!  Christ Sherlock, if anyone should be giving anyone the third degree right now, I think it should be me giving you the once over.  Leave it!”

Sherlock looks away, stares into the fire, worrying the rim of his wine glass against his grape-stained lower lip.

“Maybe I didn’t know what to say, okay?  Maybe—maybe I wanted some time to think!”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah.  I know it is!”

“You’re angry.”

“That’s a good deduction, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why?!   Because I was moving on.  I was just finally moving on, and now here you are, just traipsing into my surgery like you’ve been doing it every week for a decade!!”

“Moving on?”

John ignores him.  “You went away for two years, Sherlock?!!  You ran off to parts unknown, and you…”  John can feel his breath catch and his chest tighten.  “You made me watch.  You made me watch, and think…  I thought—I thought it was my fault, Sherlock.  Two years—my fault, and I…”

Sherlocks’ brow furrows a little.  “Don’t be ridiculous, John.  Why would it be your fault?” 

And there is something in his tone, dismissive and a little superior, that ignites that thing that has been lying dormant in John’s empty heart since it happened.  He’s blind with it.  He’s choking on the impossible attempt to damp it down.

“BECAUSE I SHOULD HAVE STOPPED IT!  BECAUSE I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU!!  And…”  John’s chest his heaving.  “And it wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough.  And I should have told you.  I should—I should have told you…”

The room descends into silence.  John realises his cheeks are wet—somehow, wet—and Sherlock’s face is doing something John has never seen before.  He looks small, diminished, almost overwhelmed. 

“Tell me what?”  It’s barely a whisper.

John wipes angrily at his eyes, snatches up the half full glass beside him, and drains it in one swallow.  The wine burns as it goes down, making John’s sinuses and eyes burn until they are watering again.  “That you were the best and wisest man that I have ever known.  That you saved me, in every way a person can save another, from the very first moment we met.  That I never wanted to know what life would be like without you to share it with.  That it—that I wanted…” 

John’s chest aches, and his throat is so tight he has to stop.  He rubs a hand across his eyes, and leaves it there.

An ambulance races by on the street outside, and the fire pops in the hearth, but all John can hear is Sherlock breathing.

“Forgive me.”

John can’t bring himself to reply.

“John, please forgive me for all the hurt I’ve caused you.”  There is some comfort in the fact that Sherlock sounds as wrecked as he feels, but it’s not enough.

“Do I mean anything to you?”John finally drops his hand from his lap, looks up, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet, and he doesn’t care anymore.He doesn’t care who sees.

Sherlock’s mouth is slightly parted, his lips tremble.  “Of course.  Of course you do.”

John nods.  “And how would you have felt then, hmm?  If I’d been the one on the roof that day—and you’d been the one down on the pavement.”

Sherlock goes pale.  He looks like he’s going to be ill.  All he does is shake his head.

John waits.  He’s said his piece, and he’s tired.  He’s tired and he’s probably drank too much.

Sherlock is rubbing his palms over the knees of his trousers, over and over.  He’s rocking a little with the motion, and there are small spots gathering from the tears dripping down onto his thighs.  “You…”  He swallows tightly and sucks in a huge breath.  “You hate me.  You must—you must hate me.”

And John wants so much to respond in the affirmative, to see Sherlock hurt the way he hurt him, but Sherlock’s brought his hands up to cover his eyes now, palms pressed into his eye sockets, long fingers knotted in his fringe, and he’s pulling—hard, rocking still.

“No.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.

“No,” John repeats.  “I don’t.  I couldn’t.”  He smiles tightly.  “Believe me, I tried for awhile, but…  I just couldn’t.”

Hope flits across Sherlock’s eyes.

“Besides, I’m not stupid you know.  I know that the only person who’s going to put up with a dick like me, is an even bigger arsehole.”

Sherlock sobs out a laugh, and John chuckles, before sobering again.  He feels like shit.  It’s the wine.  Too much too fast.  But he’s grateful for the drop in inhibition.  He’s not sure he could say what he wants to, needs to, without it.

“I didn’t hate you.  I missed you.  Every day.  Some days—every second of every day.  And for a long time I wasn’t okay.”

“Are you now?”  So small and careful.

John curls his tongue out to lick lips.  “I don’t know.  I thought so.  I thought that if I could just wake up, if it was all just some nightmare, and I could just wake up, then things could go back to the way they were.  But that’s not how life works, and everyone said…  I had to move on.  It made sense.  I had to, you know, or—I wasn’t going to get better.  But now here you are, my miracle, and—I don’t know.  I don’t know anymore.  Maybe—maybe I was never okay.”

“I missed you too.”  Sherlock’s eyes are gone heavy from the alcohol, his speech just a the slightest bit slurred.  “There was a night in Nepal, halfway up a mountain, and I slept under the stars.  I remembered how fussed you were that I didn’t know the solar system.  That first proper entry in your blog, remember?”

John nods.  “Yeah.  Might have been a little harsh there.”

“I’d taken it to heart, though.  Learned the planets, the constellations, and I lay there with the whole universe stretched above me, and all I could think about was your face, covered in stars—a supernova.  And I named them.  I said every constellation I could see and remember, because somehow it felt like maybe you could hear me.  It felt like somehow, maybe, I wasn’t so alone.”

John doesn’t know what to say to this.  If he wasn’t so drunk, if Sherlock wasn’t so drunk, he would suspect whether the man before him even was Sherlock, start to doubt all over again, but they’re both drunk enough for acceptance, and John feels his heart fill and warm at the words.

“I’m glad.  I’m glad you missed me.”

Sherlock opens his mouth as though, perhaps, he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. He just stares, and John stares back, because he wants to, because he still can’t trust his own eyes.  It’s like some sort of miracle.  It’s Sherlock, so of course it is, and there will always be one more, one more miracle for him, because Sherlock is just that clever, and just that mad, and maybe, just maybe, he does care—at least enough for this, enough to come home, and to sit a few feet away, and to look at John, for just a moment, as though he is the centre of his whole universe.

It’s enough, John realises.  It’s always been enough.  Just the two of them—here, like this, belonging to one another in this flat, and in these small, intimate, domestic moments.  It’s enough now, and it always will be, if only…

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”  The tone so deep, so earnest, so raw, it momentarily takes John’s breath away.

And after a moment’s pause.  “I need you to promise me you’re staying.  No more of this—running off—me in the dark.  Promise me.  Promise me Sherlock.”

John sees Sherlock pause.  He’s thinking.  He’s rolling it about and examining it from every angle in that great brain of his.  After a moment, he nods.  “I promise.  I promise I will always be here for you, John.  Always.”

It feels weighty, the way he says it.  It feels like a commitment.  John swallows around the lump in his throat.  “Me too.  I promise.  I’ll be here.  I’m staying.”

“Here?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re staying?  You mean ‘here’ here.  You mean here with me?”

John thinks about the texts on the mobile in his pocket, he thinks about the cheap ring tossed hastily in the desk drawer at work, and the three-month advance dinner reservation, brushed aside in a heartbeat.  He thinks of the hollow flat filled with let furniture and knick-knacks that belong to a woman he hadn’t even known existed six months prior.

“Is that an invitation?”

Sherlock holds his gaze in that old familiar way, the one that used to set his head to spinning, that made his blood sing.  “Yes.  Definitively and unreservedly, yes.  Stay.”

John remembers empty days, and lonely nights.  He remembers drinking away the daylight hours, and waking with a shout, in the dark, drenched in sweat and horror.  He remembers how he was before that chance meeting with Mike Stamford, and the lab at Bart’s, and chasing murderous cabbies through the rain-slick streets of London.  He remembers how he felt just that morning, waking up, seeing 30+ years of grey, predictable nothing stretching out before him, as he bathed, and brushed his teeth, grabbed a coffee and drove to work, and knowing that it was his duty to bear it, to endure it as best that he could.  And now—now the world is suddenly full of possibilities again.

“I will.”


End file.
